


Bad Optics

by skeilig



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Alternate Universe - Politics, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Eddie Kaspbrak, Campaign Manager Eddie, Casual Sex, Communications Director Richie, Enemies to Friends, First Time Blow Jobs, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Political Campaigns, Riding, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Experimentation, Top Richie Tozier, Workplace Sex, they switch but the most extended and detailed scene is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24245194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeilig/pseuds/skeilig
Summary: “She’s elitist,” Richie says, waving a hand. “She was a fashion designer? Hello? Her new husband is a fancy architect? She doesn’t understand… farmers.”For a beat, Eddie stares at him across the conference table. Then he says, “Yeah, maybe this is a Richie-stays-quiet meeting. Any other–?”“Are you serious?” Richie blurts. “I’m sorry I didn’t go to fucking Columbia for political science, but Bill hired me and I work for this campaign–”“Oh, right, yeah, sorry– Bill, any more college roommates you think we should loop into this conversation?”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 79
Kudos: 436





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I don’t know how campaigns work, I just like Veep a lot. 
> 
> In the original iteration of this, Bill was an actual politician and not a horror author, but then I found this news article and had to change it: <http://stateandcapitol.bangordailynews.com/2015/03/23/stephen-king-for-governor-horror-story-or-best-seller/>
> 
> It's also worth noting that Maine's governor at this time was the actual worst: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UB1bSJB3n10>

_As things heat up for next year’s gubernatorial race, a few more candidates join the field of Democratic potentials. In addition to state representative and former fashion designer Beverly Marsh, author and Maine native William Denbrough has generated some buzz. An online petition encouraging Denbrough to run for governor collected more than ten thousand signatures this week. The forty-year-old horror and mystery writer behind_ Attic Room _and_ The Black Rapids _, has no previous political experience. Denbrough has not commented on the petition. For The Takeaway, July 8th, 2017, I am your host, Mike Hanlon._

+

At a bar in Washington D.C., Eddie Kaspbrak orders another round of shots. It’s mid-August and the swampy heat of the city has started to assuage, but the next election cycle is just beginning to heat up. Eddie clinks his glass with friend and frequent-colleague Stanley Uris and tips it down the hatch. 

The two have spent the evening commiserating and comparing notes on future prospects. They’re hoping to work together again, after the past nine months or so of independent consulting work. But 2016 kicked everyone’s ass, so there’s more dread than usual heading into 2018. Apart from the work, which was bad enough, Eddie is still weathering a contentious divorce. His ex hired a bloodthirsty lawyer, and Eddie’s already on his third lawyer because the first two were schmucks. So he has plenty reason to drink and complain. 

Eddie continues scrolling through his email inbox on his phone. “Oh, here’s a weird one. Might be a buddy fucking with me, actually. But it’s William Denbrough? Like, the writer?”

Stan says, “Yeah.” 

Eddie elaborates, “ _Attic Room_.” 

Stan says, “Yeah, I know who he is.” 

“Apparently he has feelers out for the governor’s race in Maine of all places.” 

Stan swirls his drink, pondering. “Isn’t he from Maine?” 

“I dunno.” 

“All his books are set there,” Stan points out. “Well, most.” 

Eddie throws him a look. “I didn’t realize you were a fan.” 

Stan sounds offended at the insinuation when he says, “I’m not.”

“I might call him up for shits and giggles,” Eddie says. “Is that crazy?” 

Stan shrugs. “Go for it.” 

He’s never been particularly passionate about the jobs he takes. He has his political opinions of course, held close to his chest, but he follows the numbers. 

“I can’t do New York again,” Eddie says darkly, thinking of his failed Senate race. “Nearly fucking killed me.” 

“Check it out, whatever,” Stan says. “A job’s a job.”

+

A week later, Eddie and Stan fly to Portland and rent a car. The two-hour drive to Bangor along tree-lined I-95 is relatively quiet. “You been to Maine before?” Eddie asks him. 

Stan, sitting behind the wheel and staring diligently out the windshield, shakes his head. A smooth-voiced radio host sweet-talks them about the week’s weather on Maine Public. 

“I have,” Eddie says. “When I was a kid. I had an aunt who lived in, uh… Augusta.” 

“Cool,” Stan says, without an attempt at enthusiasm. 

The Denbrough 2018 Campaign HQ is located in downtown Bangor. It’s a quaint brick-faced building, two stories with tall narrow windows. Stan parks on the street and Eddie silently appraises his parallel parking technique and then they head inside. 

William Denbrough, who introduces himself as Bill, has the energy of a taller man, but he’s all of five-seven. He wears a light blue checkered shirt, tucked into slacks, and gives enthusiastic handshakes to Eddie and Stan. 

“How was your flight?” Bill asks. “And the drive?”

“Nothing to report,” Stan says dryly, while Eddie gives a more personable answer: “Good, thanks for asking.” 

As they begin a tour of the office, already bustling with activity and filled with a chorus of ringing phones, Bill says, “I have some staff hired already. But I’d appreciate your help filling out my team. I’ll introduce you to the communications director, if I can find him… Oh! This is my wife, Audra.”

The woman, tall with sleek reddish hair, glances at them as she walks past. She’s talking on her cell phone so she gives them a quick nod and smile and keeps going. 

“She’s an actress,” Bill explains, as if they didn’t know. “She has some good nonprofit connections. You know, everyone has a foundation these days.” 

“Uh huh,” Stan says, skeptical. Eddie shoots him a look, clearly read as: _Be nice_. 

On the way through the office, Bill stops and knocks on a slightly ajar office door. Inside, through the glass wall, Eddie can see a man sitting at the desk with his feet up (he’s not wearing shoes, only socks), typing on his phone in front of two open laptops. The plaque outside his office reads: Richard Tozier, Communications Director. 

He glances up at the intrusion and then his face breaks into a huge smile. “Are these the genuine D.C. insiders you were telling me about?” 

His voice is loud, first of all. The phrase ‘genuine D.C. insiders’ does not feel like a compliment; and, well, Eddie can’t argue on that point. 

The communications director springs to his feet and says, “Richie,” as he reaches across his desk to grab Eddie’s hand.

“Edward Kaspbrak,” Eddie says, then, “Um, Eddie.” 

“Stan Uris,” Stan says, as he elbows Eddie further into the office. “I’ve seen your Netflix special.” 

Eddie glances to Stan and then back to Richie. “What? Netflix special?”

“Oh.” Richie grins and rubs his stubbled jaw, looking embarrassed, or faking it to seem humble. “Yeah, I’m a comedian.”

“You’re a comedian,” Eddie repeats, and now he looks back at Bill. 

“Long-time friend,” Bill explains. 

This is something Eddie wishes he had known sooner. All campaigns have some level of cronyism, in Eddie’s experience, but this seems like a liability. 

“What did you think?” Richie asks Stan, as if the quality of his stand-up special is important to establish.

“It’s… okay,” Stan says, straight-faced. “I watched half of it.”

Richie laughs. “Fair enough. My old stuff is kinda– well. I didn’t write it.” 

“Oh, great. You didn’t write it,” Eddie says. “And you’re the communications director?”

Richie laughs heartily. “Oh, I can already tell. We’re gonna have a real fun dynamic, you and me. Good cop, bad cop. Bert and Ernie.” 

Eddie stares back at him, level and unimpressed. They’re not going to have any kind of dynamic, if he can help it. 

“Alright, well,” Bill says from behind him, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go sit down in my office and talk this through.”

+

Later that night, after the meeting, Stan and Eddie find a sports bar to have a few drinks and decompress. The place has low lighting and low ceilings, TVs in each corner, and two pool tables in the middle of the room. They’re sitting at the bar, picking over fries after they ate their burgers, and drinking beers.

Eddie… likes Maine. Maybe. Or maybe he’s drunk. Anyway, he’s saying to Stan, “I don’t know, I could see myself spending some time here. Riding around the state on a bus, kissing farmers’ asses, that kind of thing. Coal miners? Are there a lot of coal miners around here?

“No,” Stan says shortly. “There are no coal reserves in Maine.” 

“How the hell do you–? Whatever.” Eddie shakes his head. “It’ll be nice. It’s one hell of a meal ticket. Where does he get this money?” 

“He’s at least partially self-funded,” Stan says, faster and more reliable than a google search. “But his fundraising is strong so far.” 

Eddie scoffs. “These self-funded assholes. They believe in themselves too much.” He pauses, swirls his drink. This beer, whatever it is, is kind of cloudy. Dead yeast settles to the bottom. “I say we take it? Am I crazy? We’re not gonna make it past the primary anyway.” 

“Don’t jinx it.” Stan knocks on the shiny, sticky wood surface of the bar. Then, when the bartender glances in their direction, he mutters an apology. 

“You believe in jinxing?” Eddie asks him, laughing. “You?” 

“Don’t wanna take my chances.”

+

_Earlier today, in his hometown of Derry, popular horror author William Denbrough officially announced his campaign for governor. This comes on the heels of another big announcement this week from Beverly Marsh, widening the field for the Democratic race to a staggering fifteen candidates. Denbrough and Marsh are unconventional but already popular choices; Marsh has little political experience, and Denbrough has none at all. In his announcement speech today, he was straightforward about that fact, and said that he brings passion for his home state of Maine, and the rest of his team brings the political experience and ‘know-how’ to back it up._

_2016 was the year of the political outsider; will this trend hold or will 2018 be a return to traditional candidates? Either way, this is shaping up to be one exciting race. For The Takeaway, August 30th, 2017, I’m your host, Mike Hanlon. Catch you next time._

+

“Did you see this?” Richie asks, shoving his phone into Eddie’s face. 

They’re on the bus back to Bangor, after a positive day in Derry to make the campaign announcement. Derry was a charming small town; Bill made his announcement outside on Main Street, in front of a row of quaint small businesses. It was great optics. His speech referred to a few long-standing business owners by name. 

Eddie blinks and rears his head back, holding Richie’s phone until his eyes can focus on the screen. It’s a tweet, from @BeverlyMarsh that reads: _I’m passionate about this state, and I’ve previously held public office to prove it._

Eddie snorts a laugh as he lets go of Richie’s hand. “Spicy.” 

“I can’t believe she’s subtweeting us.” He clicks his tongue, and falls back against the bench seat opposite Eddie. “At him next time.” He glances up, grinning. “What if I replied, ‘at him next time’? And, like, shrug emoji.” He makes an exaggerated gesture and smirks. 

Eddie sighs. “Why are you asking me? You’re the communications director… ostensibly.” 

“Ostensibly,” Richie repeats with a chuckle. “You wound me.” 

“I shouldn’t be able to wound you by pointing out your job title.” 

Richie smiles, perfectly relaxed and cocky—his face is a little slap-able now that Eddie thinks about it—but before he can quip back, Stan says, “Okay, that’s enough of the Richie-and-Eddie show.” 

Eddie snaps his head in Stan’s direction. _The Richie-and-Eddie show?_ He resents that. He wants to say something back, but he’s afraid if he opens his mouth the only thing that will come out is: _Why is Richie’s name first?_ So he doesn’t say anything. Besides, Stan isn’t looking at him, absorbed in his own phone, thumbs flying. 

“Fine,” Eddie says. “The robot needs silence to work.”

The corner of Stan’s mouth twitches but he doesn’t fight back. Richie, on the other hand, laughs louder and harder than the joke deserves. 

Bill, on the phone with a reporter in the back, covers the receiver and looks toward the front of the bus. “Richie, will you shut up? Yes, sss-sorry, can you repeat the question?” 

+

One of Eddie’s first moves as campaign manager was to hire a speech coach for Bill. Bill got defensive about it because he took it as a comment on his stutter—“It’s not that bad anymore,” he insisted, despite the fact that pretty much any time he was interviewed it got twice as bad—but Eddie told him that this is standard practice for any candidate. And it is, sort of. But he did tell the coach to pay particular attention to that stutter. 

(“You know, Biden had a stutter,” Eddie said to Stan, his sounding-board when he needs to justify a decision to himself. “He’ll be fine.” Stan had said, in sarcasm that was somehow sharp and flat at the same time, “Oh, yeah, Biden is an aspirational public speaker.”)

Eddie and Stan move into a hotel in Bangor; it’s a suite, separate bedrooms and bathrooms, a shared kitchenette and living area. It quickly becomes their office-away-from-the-office, the kitchen counter and coffee table spread with Eddie’s printed-out research, and the walls decorated with various maps of Maine.

The first few nights at the Residence Inn, the two stay up late, drinking cheap beers and cramming research on their opponents. The Republican incumbent, Henry Bowers, is no-joke bad. Bad enough for Eddie to feel a stir of righteous indignation for the first time in a while; it’s like waking from a year-long hibernation. 

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mutters, skimming an article. “He said all the crime in Maine is from minorities coming up from the Bronx. He just… said that. Fucking insane.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be playing interference,” Stan says. “He won because the Dems split last time.” 

“Forgive me for not being too worried about Bill,” Eddie says bluntly. “He’ll get knocked out in the primary, and he’s not gonna run as a third-party. This is a marketing ploy, right? Sell some books? Besides, competition makes us stronger, right? Let the best man—or woman—win.” 

Stan shoots him down without remorse. “You don’t believe that.”

“Yeah, I don’t believe anything anymore.” Eddie crushes his empty beer can and tosses it blindly toward the wastebasket near the desk. “Whatever, it’ll be fun. I’m already having fun. I don’t need another stressful campaign. I’m prematurely graying.”

“It’s not premature.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up, Stanley.” 

+

Beverly Marsh is an interesting opponent. Her campaign seems to have narrowed in on Bill as a prime target, someone to make her look better by contrast. Bill is the only one with less experience in politics, after all. She’s framed herself as a savvy businesswoman, coming to public sector out of the goodness of her heart and genuine concern or whatever. Eddie knows that type of thing is only skin-deep. 

And Eddie knows she must have skeletons in her closet; sometimes you can just tell. 

So when the first major poll comes back and Bill trails her by a couple points, Eddie gathers his best minds—or, rather, the only minds he’s got—to address the Beverly problem. 

“She’s elitist,” Richie says, waving a hand. “She was a fashion designer? Hello? Her new husband is a fancy architect? She doesn’t understand… farmers.” 

For a beat, Eddie stares at him across the conference table. Then he says, “Yeah, maybe this is a Richie-stays-quiet meeting. Any other–?”

“Are you serious?” Richie blurts. He doesn’t seem as amused as he usually does with their ‘dynamic’ or whatever he wants to call it. “I’m sorry I didn’t go to fucking Columbia for political science, but Bill hired me and I work for this campaign–”

“Oh, right, yeah, sorry– Bill, any more college roommates you think we should loop into this conversation?” 

Richie collapses back against his chair and mutters, “Unbelievable.” 

Bill, sitting at the head of the table, shakes his head. “Okay, Eddie, you’ve expressed your feelings about my team. That’s enough. We’re moving on.”

Stan slides a piece of paper toward Eddie; in the margin, in his neat, all-caps handwriting it says: DON’T GET US FIRED, DUMBASS. Eddie shoves the paper away. 

Maybe Eddie is getting a bit of a power trip from this job. He can admit that. He can behave at his absolute worst, secure in the knowledge that, really, he’s untouchable. There’s no way Bill is going to land a better campaign manager. And if he fires Eddie that’s going to be terrible optics. There’s no coming back from that, not for him. So Eddie doesn’t have to be nice. People don’t hire Eddie for him to be _nice_.

Then Stan, the backstabber, says, “I think elitism is a decent angle.”

Eddie doesn’t look up from his laptop, but he can still _see_ Richie’s smug face in his mind’s eye. “Can you walk me through your thinking, Stanley?” 

“She’s from Maine, sure, but she’s only lived here for the past five years. Before that, she lived in New York. And, well, the fashion designer thing… like Richie said… I think we say those words as often as possible. ‘Fashion designer.’ What’s less down-to-earth and relatable than a fashion designer?”

“Plus it reminds everyone that she’s a woman,” Richie mutters. There are a couple reluctant laughs from around the table, and some light scolding before Richie says, “I’m kidding, I’m fucking joking.” 

Eddie waits, a calm smile on his face, before he goes for the kill. “All good thoughts. Except she grew up on Welfare and going after a rags-to-riches success story is sort of passé. Not to mention, glass houses. Specifically, Bill’s glass house that he lives in with his movie star wife. Or, wait, how many residences do you have again? Elitism is not our angle. It’s _an_ angle, we can contribute to the whispers, but it’s not _our_ angle. Okay?” 

No one has anything to say. 

“I want dirt on her voting record,” Eddie says. “Stan, get the interns on it. I want to see all her tax returns. I want to know everything about her divorce. Okay?” 

Stan nods hurriedly, taking a few notes, before he packs up his stuff and scurries out of the room. 

“Okay,” Bill says, sounding tired and peaky. “You’ve got it covered, Eddie?”

“Yes. I’ll grab you for the briefing later.” 

Bill stands up from the table and leaves the conference room as well, leaving only Richie who, for some reason, is still sitting across from Eddie. Content to ignore him, Eddie bangs out a couple more email responses.

Then Richie says, “Did you call a meeting only so you could shit all over everybody’s ideas?” 

Eddie makes a noise in the ballpark of a laugh, and glances up. “This isn’t a group project. We’re all adults. Right? I hope everyone here is mature enough to handle it.” 

“Yeah, we’re all adults,” Richie says, smiling back at him. “Um. I was wondering. Did you take this job that you clearly feel is beneath you because you get off on being the smartest person in the room? Or is it because you can’t hack it in the big leagues anymore?” 

Eddie’s pulse pounds in his throat and he says the first thing that comes to mind, which is never a good strategy for him. “You know, Richie, I was wondering. Did Bill offer you this job out of pity because your comedy career tanked after you got outed?” 

Richie laughs without humor, tipping his chin back. “Jesus _Christ_. You did your research. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re _very_ thorough.” 

Eddie– regrets it. “Sorry,” he says, barely hearing it under the sound of his own rushing blood. His face burns. “That was… too far.” 

“No, I get it, you’re in attack-mode. Just looking for a target.” Richie shoves up from the table. “Maybe we shouldn’t work directly together anymore. This obviously isn’t working for either of us. We are adults, after all, and I can–” 

“Hey, no, I’m–” Eddie pauses, swallows, his throat dry. He looks up and meets Richie’s eyes. “I’m gay.” 

Richie’s face does a complicated twist. His eyebrows jump and then settle. “O…kay.”

“Just– I’m not being homophobic.”

“Yeah, using a public outing as a snappy punchline is really–”

“I’m sorry, okay?” Maybe it sounds sincere enough; Richie stops in his tracks, mouth open. Eddie looks back down at the edge of the table and says, “I’m struggling with it, so I’m… I lashed out, I think. I’m in the process of divorcing my wife, and it’s…” He trails off, clicks his tongue. “Yeah.” 

“Okay, well, um.” Richie claps his hands together. “Good luck with all that. I might suggest therapy. Hope you can be more professional in the future. Peace.”

He backs out of the room before Eddie can begin to formulate a response. 

+

The first time that Eddie thinks Bill might actually have a shot, they’re at a rally in Portland. The centerpiece of his speech is the Medicaid expansion that the current governor keeps vetoing. This is the hot-button issue for the campaign generally, but for Bill they found a personal angle that really drives it home. 

Bill’s younger brother, he called him Georgie, had leukemia. Bill speaks eloquently and emotionally about growing up in a small town, with a local hospital that lacked many services. About the stress his parents experienced paying medical bills. He never wants another family to have to go through that. 

After the speech, Eddie watches as Bill greets some of his supporters. He’s really good with them. With at least three constituents, he ends up crying with them and hugging them. 

Eddie watches, in awe of how well everything is going—and cynically wondering where Bill learned how to do this; maybe his actress wife?—until someone slides in to stand next to him. It’s Richie.

“Hey,” Eddie says, ears burning with guilt about what he said to him last week. “It was a good speech. Well done.” 

“Oh, that wasn’t me,” Richie says breezily. 

Eddie laughs. “Rule one: always take credit. Also–” He turns to face him. “You didn’t write the speech? What exactly do you do around here?”

“I… direct communication. Obviously.” Richie holds up his hands, one phone in each.

“Like a cell tower?”

“Yes.” Richie grins and holds both phones to his head, above his ears, like antennae, pivoting them around. He turns slowly in a circle until it’s clear that Eddie won’t reward him with a laugh. His hands fall back limply to his side. “For real, I’m doing a whole social media, Twitter strategy.” 

Eddie nods, trying his best to not show any hint of distaste on his face.

He must not succeed because Richie laughs. “Okay. You know, you don’t have to be nice to me now just because you used me as an internalized homophobia punching bag.”

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, motioning for him to lower his voice as he looks around. 

“In fact, you being nice to me… feels patronizing? I can handle it. Tell me whatever you wanna say about my Twitter strategy.” 

“Okay, you asked for it.” Eddie chuckles and crosses his arms, lifting his chin slightly to look Richie in the eye. “It’s below your pay-grade, isn’t it? Couldn’t we get a nineteen-year-old intern to Tweet and you can focus on bigger picture stuff?” 

“This _is_ big picture,” Richie argues, still smiling. “It’s _the_ picture. This is gonna win us the nomination.”

Eddie says slowly, “Uh huh…” He’s never been the type to not say anything if he doesn’t have anything nice to say, but sometimes it’s meaner to leave it to the imagination. 

Richie, to his credit, laughs. “Hey, let’s have a proper meeting sometime, I’ll go over my plan with you. I’m sure you could… give me some pointers.”

Eddie frowns, glancing briefly at Richie before he turns back to watch Bill where he’s still meeting-and-greeting. “You’re not gonna accuse me of shitting all over your ideas?” 

“Careful, I could get you fired.” 

Eddie laughs despite himself. He tries to muffle it, but it ends up even more obvious as he snorts into his fist. “Blackmail. That’s cute.” 

“It’s not blackmail,” Richie says, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s a threat. So, what do you say?” 

Eddie looks back at him, giving him a quick once-over, from head to toe and back again. He can probably play it off as an appraisal, summing him up. When his eyes, without permission, flicker back down to his throat and chest and belt buckle again, that’s harder to explain in terms of a power-move. Or at least, a nonsexual power-move. 

Not that he’s thinking about Richie sexually. Maybe he’s kind of cute in a schlubby way, his hair a bit too long and posture slouched as he stands with his hands in his pockets. But Eddie’s not, like, into that. 

“Okay,” Eddie says, finally, turning to stare straight ahead again. “We’ll have a meeting, if that’s what you want. Check my calendar and schedule something.” 

Richie spends a moment tapping on one of his two phones. “Done.”

“Great.”

“Good.” Richie returns his hands—and phones—to his pockets and rocks forward on his toes before settling back on his heels. 

Apparently, he’s not going to leave Eddie alone. Eddie spots Stan on the other side of the podium, and is about to excuse himself to go talk to him when Richie nudges his elbow into his arm and says, “You know what Bill said to me earlier?”

“No, obviously not.” 

“Yeah, it was a rhetorical question.”

“That’s not what a rhetorical–”

“Can you shut up for five seconds? Jesus.” Richie _rolls his eyes_ — _Richie_ rolls his eyes! At _Eddie!_ —and Eddie wonders how much mileage he could really get from his blackmail and/or threats. Would Bill actually fire him if Richie asked him to? Oblivious to Eddie’s calculations, Richie continues, “I asked him if he was nervous about this, and he said no, because it’s just like a book signing. He said people just want to be heard. They want to feel a connection.” 

Eddie narrows his eyes, searching Richie’s face, searching for the joke or the hidden meaning. Slowly, it dawns on him: the words were sincere. Richie is watching Bill—still interacting with the public, greeting each person with fresh enthusiasm—and his eyes are misty. 

Richie _believes_ in this. He believes in Bill. 

Wow.

Eddie really is the only one who’s not a total sucker. 

+

The opo research turns up some promising leads, but Bill won’t let Eddie use _any_ of it. 

“Look, the thing is,” Bill says to his gathered staff and advisors, during a late night strategy session at campaign HQ, “I don’t think we should use anything to do with her ex. She’s been open that the relationship was abusive. Anything he may have done, anything that happened with Rogan-Marsh, seems irrelevant. And that’s stooping really low. That’s not the campaign we’re running.” 

“No, of course this wouldn’t come directly from the campaign,” Eddie says. “That would be suicide. But there are always anonymous tips. Or we nudge a whistleblower. Provide some encouragement.” 

Richie quirks a brow. “Bribe?”

“No, of course not,” Eddie dismisses easily.

“You’re not hearing me, Eddie,” Bill says. “It’s not about who this comes from. It’s not about optics. It’s that I don’t want to do this. So we’re not doing it.” 

Eddie looks back at him, taking in his serious expression and rigid posture. Bill is too delicate to survive the primary, let alone the general. And he already knew that. So why fight too hard? 

“Okay,” Eddie says. “We’ll table it. Indefinitely.”

“Permanently,” Richie corrects, smirking. 

+

After everyone leaves for the night, Eddie and Stan stay behind in the dim, empty office. While Stan, sitting at Eddie’s desk, pores over the latest poll data, Eddie paces the floor in front of him, feeling like a caged animal, his ears perking at every soft, _Huh_ , that Stan makes. But he doesn’t ask for the damage yet. He knows from experience that Stan will bite his fucking head off if he rushes him. 

Finally, Stan looks up from his computer and at Eddie. That’s the signal.

“So,” Eddie begins, slamming his palms down on his own desk. “Who has this, right now? Primary tomorrow, who wins?” 

“That’s not a useful way of looking at–”

Eddie raps his knuckles on the edge of the desk, drowning out his reasonableness with his impatience. “I don’t care, oh my _God_ , I don’t care.”

“If you’re asking me who’s leading—which means fuck-all at this point, but I know you’re going to read too much into it and–”

“That’s literally my job, but go on.” 

Stan gives him a weary look, and turns his laptop around so Eddie can see. “Marsh is leading the pack by a couple points, Bill isn’t far behind and he’s still gaining traction which no one expected, least of all you, and—basically—they all win in a match-up against Bowers. I mean, ‘Generic Democrat’ is still everyone’s top choice but unfortunately ‘Generic Democrat’ isn’t running this year.”

Eddie nods, processing, as his eyes scan the numbers. “Huh,” he breathes, in much the same tone Stan had earlier. “So, maybe this is more than a blight on my resume.” He turns from the desk to start pacing again. “And that means I’m either politically prescient, or I can turn anyone into a viable candidate, and either is good. Even if he doesn’t win—and he _won’t_ —this makes me look good.”

“Us,” Stan mutters. 

Eddie turns on him with sarcasm. “Yeah, sorry, do you feel undervalued, buddy?” 

“You’re more of a dick when things are going well, do you realize that?” 

+

_The field of Democratic contenders gather tonight for a town hall debate at Bowdoin College. All eyes are on current frontrunner Beverly Marsh; this will be the first big test of this junior politician’s viability as a candidate. Maybe surprisingly, Bill Denbrough continues to place in the top four in polls, and his campaign shows no sign of losing steam. Expectations are lower for Denbrough given his total lack of political experience; unless he has a meltdown on stage, I think he’s going to come out of this looking pretty good. I wonder if his book sales are up. Maybe he’ll plug them on stage, what do you think?_

_Tune in at 7pm for live coverage of the debate. And I’ll see you tomorrow everybody._

+

Bill doesn’t have a meltdown on stage. There are even a couple moments that make him look good: sharp, snappy, composed. At one point, his response to a Medicaid-related question is so good, so punchy, that Eddie, on the sidelines, can’t help but hiss, “ _Yes_ ,” under his breath and pump a fist. Of course, Richie catches him reacting like it’s a sports game and then Richie starts goofing around, making exaggerated gestures, cheers and groans in response to what happens on the debate stage. 

But most positive for Bill, and most surprising to Eddie, is that the young, college-aged crowd loves him. Afterward, they all queue up to take selfies with him. 

Although, maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise. Eddie has spent some time looking at Bill’s Twitter, personally curated by Richie. It’s sometimes incomprehensible to Eddie, but Richie manages to blend a believably earnest dad-like sense of humor with a surprising deftness for memes and internet lingo. The result, apparently, is that a swarm of eighteen-year-olds are suddenly very interested in local politics. 

There’s a brief chant of “Bill, Bill, Bill!” (Apparently a reference to a ‘Science Guy’? That’s what Richie explains in an undertone to a confused Eddie.) Bill also seems confused, but chuffed.

“They love _you_ ,” Eddie says to Richie, a little awed. 

Richie shrugs. “Yeah, but they think they love Bill.”

 _Holy shit_ , Eddie thinks. _He’s good at this job. He’s actually kind of good at this job._

As Richie continues to stand there, scratching his jaw with one hand while he works his Twitter magic with the other, Eddie thinks: _Holy shit. He’s hot. He’s actually kind of hot._

+

In December, #COKEGATE begins trending on Twitter. 

At first it’s local, but then people from around the country join in to throw tomatoes at the author-turned-gubernatorial candidate. Photos emerge, and it’s undeniable. So they don’t try to deny it. Bill used to do a little bit of cocaine, okay? Sure. Of course he did. How do you think he wrote that many books? 

“I’m not gonna lie, this is bad optics,” Eddie tells him. “People already see you as sort of…” He waves a hand, searching for the right words. He doesn’t quite find them, so he settles for, “Morally bankrupt.” 

Bill barks a laugh. “Sheesh. Bankrupt?”

“We have to hit back,” Eddie says. “Permission to hit back?” 

Richie answers for him, “Yeah, dude, you know his No-Go Zone. Anything else is… fair game?” He glances to Bill to confirm. 

Bill sighs and says, “Yeah, you can get a little dirty but– not _evil_.” 

Eddie nods as if that’s a meaningful distinction. “Got it.”

+

_New allegations surround Tom Rogan, Beverly Marsh’s ex-husband and former business partner with the fashion label Rogan-Marsh. Earlier this week, a whistleblower revealed settlements and non-disclosure agreements with women in the company, dating back years. What does this disturbing pattern say about the corporate climate at Rogan-Marsh? Many are asking what did Marsh know and when did she know it? The campaign has not yet responded to these new allegations._

+

When Eddie is summoned to Bill’s residence, he knows he’s going to get chewed out. He’s not an idiot; he was expecting to get reprimanded. Sometimes, for the good of a campaign, he has to go against the wishes of the candidate. They might throw a fit—they never want to be implicated in the dirty reality of politics—but they’ll be privately glad that Eddie did what needed to be done. 

But Bill seems, actually, furious.

Eddie stands in the middle of Bill’s spacious, open kitchen—Richie, Stan and Audra awkwardly lingering nearby—while Bill yells at him. 

“You work for _me_. You don’t do things that I tell you _not_ to do– that I _explicitly_ tell you not to do!” 

“With all due respect,” Eddie says, unmoved, “When you hired me, you entrusted me to make decisions for your campaign. I made sure this can’t be traced back to you–” 

Bill scoffs. “That’s not what I take issue with–” 

“Oh, so this is a moral dilemma.” Eddie’s eyes go wide, a bit wild, in his surprise and his desperation to get Bill to crack, to admit that maybe he _wants_ to win, maybe he doesn’t care what it takes. Eddie tries to seek out the eyes of the reluctant audience, but they don’t look at him. “A genuine moral dilemma, ladies and gentlemen! Stop the fucking presses!” He turns back to Bill, pointing at him with one finger. “If we don’t dig this shit up now, it’ll come up in the general. You think Bowers’ team will go easy on her? This is a trial by fire, and we’re all stronger for it.” 

Bill stares at him, icy and silent. Finally he says, “I think we might have different priorities.” 

Eddie puffs up his chest a little. “Maybe we do. Why did you hire me?”

+

Not entirely sure whether he still has his job, Eddie goes back to HQ. He left Bill’s house with the instruction to ‘cool off’—mildly insulting, but not the first time he’s been told to do so—and now…

He flops down in his office chair and opens his laptop. He feels shitty, in a way that’s slightly foreign. Is it guilt? Shame? He doesn’t like it, whatever it is, the slick wriggling in his gut. 

Maybe he should resign. He opens a new Word document and starts typing out a resignation letter, getting really into the drama of it, the performance of contrition. So into it that he doesn’t notice that he’s not alone until he hears someone clear his throat.

Eddie jumps and snaps his head up.

Richie stands in the door to his office, wearing a sheepish smile and holding a takeout bag, printed with a huge yellow smiley face. “I thought you might be here.”

“I’m writing my resignation letter,” Eddie blurts.

Richie’s eyebrows shoot up for a half second before he gets his expression under control. With a small smile, he steps further into the office and shuts the door, even though they’re alone. He closes Eddie’s laptop, pressing the top down slowly, until Eddie pulls his hands back from the keyboard to avoid his fingers getting crushed. Then he sets the bag of takeout on top of Eddie’s closed laptop. 

“Going away party?” Richie suggests as he pulls out the chair to sit on the other side of Eddie’s desk. 

Eddie considers. He can smell the food—Thai maybe? Or Chinese? There’s fried rice in there somewhere—and his mouth is already watering. “Okay, fine. I’m sure you’re excited to celebrate my departure.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here,” Richie quips as he reaches to untie the bag. 

But that can’t be true. Right? This feels suspiciously like an olive branch. Unless Richie is on a level of mind games that would be alarming even to Eddie, and he wanted to personally witness a little more of Eddie’s breakdown. 

As they begin to eat from the white take-out boxes—it’s Thai—Richie says, “Look, personally, I think your Machiavellian, _House of Cards_ shtick is kind of badass, but I don’t think it’s a good fit for Bill.” 

Eddie snorts. “Basic media strategizing is not _Machiavellian_.” 

“But I don’t know how serious he is about this, really. And to be fair, I didn’t think _you_ were that serious about it, either.” 

Eddie bristles. “What do you mean? This is my job.” 

“Well, I heard you talking to Stan once…” 

Eddie pales. “Oh, no.” 

“It was late one night, I was swinging by to grab something, and I heard you talking to Stan in your office, going over polling numbers, and you said, ‘Maybe this is more than a blight on my resume.’” 

Eddie stares at Richie. He remembers this moment well. He says, “I didn’t say that.” 

“Dude, don’t worry, I’m not gonna… tell anyone. Honestly, I thought it was hilarious. I liked seeing past the bullshit for a second.”

Eddie’s gazes softens, less aggressive, more wary. He looks Richie up and down, the sizing-up thing that maybe he doesn’t have a great excuse for anymore. Then he swallows and says, “You know, I think I was kind of hostile to you when we first met.” 

Richie laughs. “You think?” 

“But you’re surprisingly kind of good at this.” 

Richie grins as he picks through his Pad Thai. “That is a fantastic backhanded compliment.” 

“Oh, come off it,” Eddie snaps. “I am saying something nice to you.” 

“Yeah, convincing. Why don’t you hold a gun to my head while you say it, too?” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie says, lacking fire, each word dropping in pitch and volume.

“Can I ask you a question, Eddie?”

“Yeah. What do you mean? You are asking. Just ask it. Don’t waste my fucking time with asking if you can–”

“Jesus Christ, you are wasting way more time by being a dick about it.” Richie laughs as Eddie sputters another defense. Then Richie asks, “Would you vote for Bill?”

Eddie squirms but holds his gaze steady. “I can’t. I’m not a permanent resident of Maine.”

“That is such a cop-out answer, you little shit. Do you think he’d be a good governor?”

Eddie frowns, eyes shifting. “Off the record?”

“Oh, that says it all.”

“Come on, I’m just–” 

“I’m not wearing a fucking wire, man, Look.” Richie lifts up his button-down, showing his white under-shirt underneath. “You think this is a fucking sting operation? I’m just asking– I don’t know shit about politics–”

“Comforting to hear from my communications director–”

“ _Your_ communications director? Your? Fuck off, you are not my direct supervisor. I report to Bill.”

“Yeah, well, the organization of this campaign is bullshit, as I’ve been saying. Bill couldn’t delegate to save his fucking life.”

“Answer the question Eddie.”

Eddie rakes his hands over his eyes. He so rarely thinks about his candidates like this anymore, in some starry-eyed, idealistic way. He’s forgot how to. It’s just about winning– or not even that. It’s about putting out one fire after another, keeping their heads above water. It’s crisis management. And he’s grown to love the fires. But for a moment, Eddie tries to think about it. Finally he says, “Yeah? Compared to Bowers, yeah, I’d vote for anybody. But I don’t know. Maybe? Is anyone a good governor?”

“Shit. That… is bleak.”

“Well. The world is fucking bleak.”

Richie is quiet for a long moment. Then he sighs and says, “You want a drink? I have bourbon in my office.”

“Why do you have–? What do you think this is, fucking _Mad Men_?” Eddie pauses as Richie laughs, and he fails to suppress the growing smile on his own face. “But… yes. I’ll have a drink.”

It usually takes Eddie three or four drinks before he starts spilling about his divorce. Tonight, embarrassingly, it only takes one. They sit in chairs on the same side of Richie’s desk, the overhead light in his office turned off, so the only light is the glow from his desk lamp.

“I don’t know where to start,” Eddie says, rambling, once they broach the topic of him dating again, dating _men_. “Dating apps are so intimidating. The thought of having to tell a stranger that I’m functionally a forty-year-old gay virgin?” He shudders. “Humiliating. What if I freak out? What if I… I don’t know. It’s certainly not gonna be any good for the other guy. I shouldn’t subject somebody to that.”

It should be so embarrassing to admit—and it is—but Eddie feels detached, numb, like he’s watching himself reveal his secrets and screaming at himself to stop. But he doesn’t stop. 

His demeanor almost scholarly as he swirls his drink, Richie says, “Eddie, you know, I’m sure a lot of guys would be into your whole thing.” 

“My whole thing?” 

“Yeah, like… Your whole forty-year-old virgin twunk thing. I’m sure someone out there is just dying to pop your gay cherry.” 

Eddie bursts into laughter, forgetting to feel embarrassed or offended or horrified. The only point he bothers to refute is: “I am not a twunk.” 

“No, you’re not,” Richie agrees jovially. “Exaggeration for comedic purposes. Won’t happen again.” Richie pauses for a long time, taking a few thoughtful sips of his drink. His legs are crossed, one ankle rested on the other knee. “I didn’t– I mean. I don’t really… date. Like, relationships.” He shrugs. 

Eddie picks up his meaning and his cheeks warm. “Oh.” He takes another harsh swig of his drink. “You have comedy groupies?” 

“Oh, everyone wants to ride this train.” 

The flush spreads down to his chest. “Uh huh.”

With sudden resolve, Richie uncrosses his legs and leans forward, making intent eye contact. “Hey, so, crazy pitch. And– just to be clear, not technically sexual harassment since you’re my superior–” 

“Oh, so now you admit it,” Eddie says, before he processes anything else that’s been said. 

Richie snorts and leans back in his chair. “Yeah, yeah, weird thing to get hung up on when I’m propositioning you for sex, but yeah, fine, you win, boss-man.” 

Eddie blinks. “Wait, what? You were– propositioning me?” 

“Well, I was getting to it,” Richie says, so casually that it makes Eddie want to scream. “I guess I didn’t finish the thought.” 

“Why?” 

Eddie might seem too alarmed at the prospect, because Richie laughs. “Well, Jesus, okay, I won’t take that too personally. I was just thinking– it’s busy, we’re stressed, you need to get comfortable with men. This is sort of what I do, anyway. And, honestly, okay, this doesn’t leave this room, but your whole– thing– your aforementioned _thing_ – really does it for me. I think I get a little bit hard every time you condescend me.” 

Eddie stares at him. Some part of him still thinks this must be a weird, cruel joke. “Seriously?” 

“Yeah? God, I’m glad I’m drunk, this would be so embarrassing…” 

“Just sex?” Eddie asks carefully. He’s sweating and his skin is hot and prickling. “And you wouldn’t… I mean, you wouldn’t… I have _no_ experience… with men. And not much with… anyone.” 

“Yeah, I’m not gonna make fun of you,” Richie says, perfectly sincere. “I promise. I’ll be gentle.” He breaks into a smile again. “Unless you want me to be rough?” 

“Can I kiss you?” Eddie asks and he doesn’t wait for an answer before he lunges forward. 

“Oh shit,” Richie says, lips mashed against Eddie’s. “Now?” He doesn’t pull back, though, and one of his broad hands cups Eddie’s jaw, thumb on his cheek. 

“Yes, now.” Eddie keeps kissing him, quick hard pecks, lips wet because neither of them will stop talking. “We’re alone.” 

Just as Eddie is contemplating straddling his lap—Is that crazy? That’s crazy, they’re adults, and they don’t even like each other that much, he can’t dry-hump him in an office building in fucking Maine—Richie stands up from the chair and takes a step to crowd Eddie up against the desk. Then his hands are on Eddie’s hips and a thigh is between his legs and Eddie’s nerve runs out. 

This is good, though, he thinks. He can let Richie take charge. He doesn’t really trust himself to make the decisions here. 

Richie kisses him again and drops to his knees. Eddie hasn’t had a blowjob in—he doesn’t want to think how long. And he hasn’t had a blowjob like this—ever. Richie’s mouth is big, and he can take so much of him, all of him. Eddie’s thighs tense and he closes his eyes and bares his teeth, whining in the back of his throat. It builds and builds until Eddie moves from gripping the edge of the desk to Richie’s hair, hands fisted in his curls. This move causes Richie to moan around his cock and Eddie shudders and his hips jerk and he looks down to where Richie is gagging. His eyes are tear-filled behind his glasses, and _god the fucking glasses_. Eddie wants to come on them. 

“I want to come on your glasses,” he says, pulling back on Richie’s hair to tip his face up. He thumbs at his cheek, the hinge of his straining jaw. Eddie’s not even on the edge yet, not close enough to be saying shit like ‘I want to come on your glasses,’ but there it is. 

And Richie seems… receptive to the idea. He meets Eddie’s gaze, eyes wild, the whites bright and shining in the dark office. 

“God, this is so hot, you’re so fucking hot, you look so good.” It’s kind of stupid to say and Eddie will feel embarrassed about it in a second but first—he pulls from Richie’s mouth and in a few rough strokes, comes all over Richie’s face, painting the lens of his glasses, and dripping down his cheek and lips. 

Eddie collapses back against the desk with a sigh; it’s only been a second, but Richie is furiously jerking off, still kneeling on the floor in front of him. 

Eddie– watches. He’s not sure what to do, or what Richie wants him to do, or what Eddie himself wants to do. It’s a little intimidating the idea of touching Richie’s dick when he’s already this far along, and obviously just wants to _come_.

Eddie looks up to Richie’s face, still dripping with his come, clinging to the stubble. Eddie reaches out tentatively and Richie leans into it, so Eddie’s fingers ghost his jaw before he smears one thumb through the mess on his glasses. Richie’s breath hitches in response. Eddie, emboldened, tracks his thumb down Richie cheek, collecting his own come and then—pulls it along Richie’s bottom lip, his mouth parted and slack. Richie’s tongue darts out to lick his thumb in a broad, wet stripe, and Eddie pushes his thumb past his teeth, pressed up against the roof of his mouth. Richie instantly closes his lips and sucks. 

“You like to have something to suck on, huh? You like being full?” Eddie feels a rush straight to his head; the way Richie reacts is intoxicating. Maybe he’s not sure how to touch him, not quite yet, but he can talk him off. Eddie can talk his way into and out of anything. “Go on, make yourself come. I want you to come like this, on the floor, sucking my fingers.”

In another moment, Richie does. His mouth falls open on a gasp and Eddie drives his thumb in deeper. 

After both their orgasms have passed, there’s a moment of terrible awkwardness. They tuck themselves back in, wincing, and Richie hauls himself up to collapse into his chair. He reaches across his desk for a couple tissues and cleans off his hand and face. He frowns at his glasses, filthy and smudged. Eddie stays standing, grimacing at the wetness of his limp dick, closed up in his underwear again. 

“Were you really writing a resignation letter?” Richie asks. He spits onto his glasses lens and tries wiping them off again, as if more bodily fluids will solve the problem.

Eddie huffs a laugh. “I was.”

“Are you going to keep writing it?” Eddie doesn’t answer right away, so Richie adds in a rush, “I shouldn’t tell you this, but Bill’s not gonna fire you. He was pissed, but he’s not gonna fire you. He knows that would be a shitshow and kill whatever chance he might have, so.”

Eddie nods slowly, absorbing that information alongside the dawning realization that he just had sex with a man for the first time. Kind of. Well, literally, they did have sex. But now he feels cowardly for not trying to touch Richie; that’s the thing that scares him so that’s the thing he needs to do. 

He can’t resign _now_. He has unfinished business.

“Thanks for telling me,” Eddie says, and then adds, stiffly, “And for, uh.” He makes a vague hand gesture.

“And for… sucking you off?” Richie barks a laugh, loud enough that it grates Eddie’s ears. “Uh, sure, man, any time.” 

“I’m not going to resign,” Eddie says, staring very deliberately at the floor. “Bill needs all the help he can get.” 

Richie laughs again, just as loud. “Uh huh. Sure.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me a long time to write because I sort of exhausted most of my political plot ideas in the first chapter… whoops. So this chapter is like 90% horny bullshit. (There’s shirt garter nonsense, if you weren’t on clown twitter for that, I apologize. If you were, I also apologize.)

It’s after 9pm and the cold remnants of takeout sit on Eddie’s desk. They ordered for the whole staff two hours ago and Eddie took his and retreated back to his office to eat alone while he worked, hearing the laughter as the rest of the staff took a quick break to eat and chat. There are a couple other staffers hanging around, but the office is half empty now. Richie’s in his office, pacing, not wearing shoes, looking sort of disheveled. It’s fucking distracting. Stan’s in his office, headphones on, laser-focused on something. 

Bill has been harder on Eddie ever since the incident, and Eddie’s been working his ass off trying to get back in his good graces. It’s also obvious that he doesn’t have much leeway anymore; he used up all his strikes in one fell swoop, so now he has to be perfect if he wants to keep his job. No more treating all the other staffers like shit, no more condescending the candidate. 

Eddie looks back to Richie. Why is he pacing? It looks like he’s talking. His lips are moving. Maybe just muttering to himself—he seems to think out loud a lot—or maybe he’s on a call, on speakerphone or something. 

He hasn’t talked much to Richie in the few days since they hooked up. He figures he’s going to have to be the one to make the next move. That’s probably appropriate, right? Richie made the first move, or at least he was the one to bring it up initially, so it stands to reason that now Eddie should reciprocate and express interest in continuing their… arrangement. 

He stares at Richie across the office, and his wheels are spinning, and he feels sort of vaguely horny. And maybe… maybe there’s something to this. Eddie’s no stranger to methodically jacking off in order to dispel some energy and refocus himself. It’s the same thing, really. 

Eddie crosses the office floor, already feeling itchy. Standing in the threshold of Richie’s open door, he says loudly, “Hey, Rich, I need to talk to you about something. Do you have a few minutes?” He raises his eyebrows meaningfully. 

Richie looks up, lips quirking in amusement. “I could make time.” 

Eddie still can’t figure out what he’s been doing in here, pacing back and forth. He’s definitely not on a phone call. His eyes fall on his bare feet, his weirdly long hairy toes.

Eddie snaps his eyes back up to say, “Can you meet me in the conference room?” 

Richie grins. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.” 

“Good, thanks.” Eddie taps the doorframe as he leaves, heat beginning to bloom in his gut. 

The blinds in the conference room are perpetually drawn for privacy, so it won’t arouse suspicion as much as pulling the blinds in his own office, or having to coordinate slinking into one of the bathrooms together. There are only a few uninterested interns remaining on the office floor, at their computers and on their phones. Stan is in his office, still wired in. He doesn’t glance up at Eddie as he walks past. 

Eddie brings his laptop and well-worn day planner into the conference room with him, for extra security. Richie shows up empty-handed, which is careless—but not totally out of character, either. When Richie walks in, he closes and locks the door behind him, and looks at Eddie who’s leaning on the table, arms crossed. Richie is still barefoot which is sort of infuriating and sexy. 

Richie gives him a cocky, lazy grin. “What did you need to talk about?” 

“Need to get out of my head,” Eddie says, taking a step toward him. 

He has a vision of pushing Richie up against the door, an idea that that might be fun to try, but Richie takes a step forward to meet him halfway, crashing into him. This is fine, too, because Richie is kind of a wall himself, solid and broad, and if Eddie had shoved him into the door that would have made a conspicuous amount of noise. Probably a bad idea. Richie licks into his mouth, his shoulders stooped, one broad hand cupping his jaw, palm hot on his skin. 

“What do you want?” Richie asks between kisses. 

“Wanna blow you.” 

Richie looks kind of amused at that, which is annoying. He smirks and says, “Okay, go for it.” 

So Eddie goes for it. He pulls out one of the rolling chairs from around the table and pushes Richie by the shoulders until he’s sitting in it. Richie spreads his knees, shifting his hips down the seat. He’s still smiling, that same lazy-cocky smile. 

Eddie wants to wipe it off his face. In an attempt to do so, he kneels in front of him, elbowing his legs a little farther apart so he can settle in between. He takes a deep, centering breath and immediately feels silly for it, like he’s doing yoga or something. He’s not doing yoga, but he is about to touch another man’s penis for the first time. 

Another deep breath and he reaches for Richie’s belt buckle. 

He’s wearing jeans, by the way, but with a belt and a nice tucked in shirt. It’s not a totally inappropriate look for the office, especially when most of Richie’s meetings are virtual, but the jeans are still noteworthy to Eddie, as well as his half-assed attempt to dress them up into something more formal. 

Richie chuckles, and Eddie glances up, bewildered with the reaction. “What?” he demands.

“You look so angry,” Richie explains. “I feel like you’re gonna pull it out just to scold it for showing up to work two minutes late today.” 

Eddie scowls to cover the smile that threatens the corners of his mouth and he pulls out Richie’s dick. He doesn’t scold it. Richie is not completely hard yet, which he supposes is to be expected, but after some light teasing strokes, he’s filled out nicely in Eddie’s hand, a nice heavy weight in his palm. 

Richie is blessedly silent, all out of smug comments, even when Eddie bows his head to lick the tip. It just tastes like skin and then, soon, his own spit. He tongues at the hard ridge of his head, spreads the slick of his own spit down the shaft with the palm of his hand. Then he bobs his head a few times, experimentally, testing the feel of it in his mouth, the strain of his jaw, the tickle at the back of his throat. 

He pulls off and glances up at Richie only to be caught in a moment of intense eye contact, while methodically jacking him. Richie’s eyes are fuzzy behind his glasses. He reaches a hand for Eddie’s hair, dragging fingers through the slicked back locks at his temple before scratching behind his ear, messing it up. It feels startlingly good, the light scrape of fingernails over his scalp, a spine-tingling sound that he can hear reverberating in his skull. His eyes flutter shut for a moment. He thinks Richie is going to say something, his mouth slightly open. But he only licks his lips and watches Eddie. So Eddie bows his head and takes him back into his mouth in one glide until the head of his cock nudges at the back of his throat. Eddie feels his throat constrict in the beginning of a gag reflex, but he breathes heavily through his nose until it passes. 

Eddie scrambles for his own belt then, temporarily going hands-free on Richie’s dick, which drags a quiet whine from Richie’s throat before he bites down on the heel of his own hand to stifle it. Eddie gets his pants undone and stuffs a hand inside to squeeze himself through his underwear, already a bit damp with precome. 

Then Eddie gets to work in earnest, building up a rhythm and swirling his tongue, and listening for Richie’s reactions, when his breath hitches or when he whispers, “Yeah, just like that.” He wishes that Richie could be a little louder, he wants to hear him, but at the same time there’s a thrill in having to stay quiet, having to stifle the noises in the back of his throat. 

Eddie is starting to feel rather proud of himself, especially when Richie brings his hands to clutch the short strands of Eddie’s hair, and swears under his breath. Eddie, it turns out, is a dick sucking champion. A total natural. 

His arrogance is tested a little when Richie taps his shoulder and says, “I’m gonna come.” 

Eddie thinks about it but he doesn’t pull off. They’re in the conference room after all; they can’t make a mess. This is a closed-loop system. 

Richie makes a strangled noise and manages to ask, “Is that—? In your mouth?”

Eddie attempts to nod before he realizes that that’s sort of difficult to distinguish from his regular head-bobbing motion. So instead he hums his consent around Richie’s cock. The resulting sound is unintentionally filthy, and Richie moans, helpless and wrecked, as he comes into Eddie’s mouth. 

It’s thick and hot and a little bitter; Eddie doesn’t swallow as he pulls off and climbs into Richie’s lap and kisses him, pushing his tongue, sloppy with spit and come, into Richie’s lax mouth. Richie cradles his jaw and accepts it, licking back and sucking on Eddie’s tongue. 

Eddie is feverishly hard, his dick pressing against Richie’s hip. The chair rocks back, creaking dangerously under the motion as Eddie ruts in his lap, searching for friction. 

“Fuck, Richie, can you–” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Richie nods and wraps a hand around him, through his underwear, squeezing and stroking through the damp, stretched fabric. “Fuck, you’re soaked.”

Eddie jerks into the palm of his hand only a few times before he’s coming hard, almost painfully. After the initial body-tensing jolt, it mellows into relief, his cock pulsing and twitching in Richie’s hand, further ruining his underwear. 

“Oh fuck,” Richie whispers emphatically, breathing against the side of Eddie’s neck. “Holy shit. That was insane.” 

“Yeah…” Eddie is still in his lap, panting, his heart pounding in his throat. He rests his forehead on Richie’s shoulder for a moment of recovery. 

Then, barely ten seconds after he came, he climbs off of him, and takes a couple teetering steps backward as he does up his pants. He’s going to have to go to the bathroom to clean up his underwear. A small shudder of disgust tickles the base of his spine. And his mouth tastes bad. He’ll gargle some water, too, and he has gum in his office. 

“Your hair is a mess,” Richie tells him, still sitting in the chair with his dick out. 

“Well,” Eddie says, frantically smoothing it back. “Can you–? Is this better?”

Richie gets dressed, tucking his wrinkled shirt back in and doing up his belt. There’s something equally sexy about him getting dressed as getting undressed, Eddie is devastated to discover. Then Richie steps toward him, his eyes focused, and fixes his hair for him. Richie bites his own bottom lip while he does it, the peek of teeth pressing into flesh. Eddie holds his breath and grasps his hands together while he waits, feeling his fluttering pulse on his wrist. 

“There,” Richie says decisively, then winks and pats Eddie’s cheek. “Good as new.” 

Eddie flinches away a little, making a sound somewhere between a scoff and laugh. 

“I’m gonna open the door now,” Richie tells him, cocking an eyebrow. “Do we walk out together? What should we be saying? I’ll follow your lead, but I’m very good at improv.”

“Um.” Eddie blinks. He did not think this far. “You leave first. I’ll…” He throws a glance to his abandoned laptop and planner that still sit the conference table. “I’ll stay here for another few minutes.”

Richie gives him a curt nod and a wry smile. “You got it, boss.”

Once Eddie sits down in the chair Richie just vacated—after checking it over for any incriminating stains (there were none)—and opens his laptop, Richie leaves the room, whistling absently, tunelessly, as he crosses the office floor. He leaves the door open, and Eddie’s back is to it, but he feels a cold sweat at the nape of his neck now that he hears more clearly the bustle of the office behind him. Ringing phones, the rapid pattering of typing keys, subdued chatter. He stares at his email inbox for a while—already overflowing, and a few more self-proclaimed urgent messages trickle in while he watches—before he closes his laptop and finally retreats. First for his office, to abandon his stuff, and then to the bathroom, to clean up. 

All in all, the encounter with Richie didn’t really help. He stays at the office until everyone else has left, even Stan, blearily wishing him a good night. He does not manage to refocus or get much work done.

+

After that, Richie becomes truly insufferable. He never took Eddie all that seriously, but there’s an edge of smugness to it now: interrupting Eddie in meetings, teasing him in front of the interns. One morning, Eddie catches Richie in the middle of performing what is essentially an improvised tight-five about Eddie’s meticulously proportioned and packed lunches, with all the college-aged interns as his audience, giggling in glee.

This is probably why you shouldn’t blow guys who work under you. (Nor should you get so turned on from blowing them that, afterward, you hump them and come in your pants in mere seconds.) You kind of lose your authority.

Eddie catches Richie’s eye, leaning against the frame of his open office door. Richie grins at him, self-satisfied and maybe a bit bashful. Eddie applauds, his claps slow and passionless, and the gathered crowd of staff turn to see him. Still giggling, now with a glimmer of nervous apprehension. 

“Very funny,” Eddie says, not even sarcastically. He’s not scolding, he’s playing along, a little amused and a little stern. He’s not a total cliche, alright? He’s not gonna flip out over some light teasing. “Richie Tozier, ladies and gentlemen… He’ll be here all week.”

Richie grins beatifically and takes a cheesy bow.

+

_With two more drop-outs today, the field for the governor’s race has narrowed. But according to his campaign, the arguably most-talked about candidate, author Bill Denbrough is staying in the race. Angela, be honest with me for a sec. What do you think about a potential governor Denbrough? California had Schwarzenegger, Minnesota had Ventura, I guess maybe it’s not that far fetched._

_I have a confession to make, Mike. I’m a total chicken when it comes to horror so I haven’t read any of his books or seen the movies._

_Oh, come on now. They’re great!_

_Yeah? You’re a fan?_

_Long time fan! They’re not all horror, you know. Some are thrillers. There’s actually– I saw this great thread on Twitter yesterday about all his corrupt politician characters._

_Is that an archetype he enjoys?_

_Definitely. Do you think that’s a bad omen? I guess only time will tell._

+

“This is the whitest NAACP event I’ve ever been to,” Richie says to Eddie. “Also, the only NAACP event I’ve ever been to.”

Eddie snorts and glances at Richie before taking another look across the room. Richie’s not wrong in his assessment. They’ve been skirting around the party for an hour, watching their candidate fumble his way through conversations and taking turns swooping in to rescue him. For now, things are going okay. Bill’s been chatting with Mike Hanlon, a well-known local public radio host, who’s also serving as the emcee tonight. From what Eddie has overheard, the conversation isn’t too political; Mike’s a fan of Bill’s books, apparently.

There’s a silent auction and a program later. Beverly Marsh and her gorgeous husband are here. When they first arrived, Richie muttered to Eddie, “Check out Marsh’s arm candy.” 

Eddie’s trying to not spend all night by Richie’s side but somehow, every time he wanders away, he’ll finds himself standing next to Richie again after only a few minutes. 

So now he glances over at Richie and narrows his eyes. “Stop clinging to me. Go mingle.” 

Richie scoffs but he turns away, muttering something under his breath. He makes a beeline for the bar, but is stopped before he makes it across the room by someone asking about his comedy career. Richie looks extremely uncomfortable, a tight-lipped smile stretched across his face. 

Eddie figures he deserves that a little bit. 

This is an important night to stir up wider support and look like a serious candidate. The Denbrough campaign really needs to branch out in its fundraising. At the moment, they run on a mix of self-funding and donations from celebrities Audra has connections with. This is all too easy to attack, and the Marsh campaign has not held back. Out of state money, using their rich friends to bankroll Bill’s vanity project, et cetera. Which is the type of sharply accurate sting that Eddie can’t help but respect. He only wishes he was able to throw it around instead of having to defend against it.

Eddie goes to get another drink, sliding past Richie who’s still trapped in a conversation with a fan, apparently. Eddie ignores the ‘help me’ eyes and walks right past him. 

Once he has a fresh glass of wine, Eddie scans the room and spots a potential situation going down. Beverly Marsh and Ben Hanscom appear to have cornered Bill and he’s smiling at them but his wide unblinking eyes convey some level of panic. 

“Shit,” Eddie mutters and goes to rescue him. “Hi, Bill, sorry to interrupt. Ms. Marsh, hi, Edward Kaspbrak, campaign manager, can I borrow him? Thanks.” He shakes her hand and whisks Bill away before anyone can get another word in edgewise. 

“Did something happen?” Bill asks.

“No, you just looked like you needed rescuing. What’s going on?”

Bill’s expression adjusts, a frown flashing across his face. “Nothing, really. But I think she knows it was us who put out the Rogan-Marsh story. And now people are saying she was complicit in it… I wish I could apologize for that.” 

Eddie says, automatically, “Don’t say anything about it.”

Bill gives him a steely look and says, “I know, I’m not going to. But I wish I could.”

“We can send her an apology edible arrangement when this is over, alright?” Eddie pats his shoulder, then directs Bill across the room to introduce him to a state senator. 

Half an hour later, while Eddie is pretending to be interested in the silent auction items, Richie appears at his elbow. He says under his breath, “Hey do you wanna blow off some steam? There’s a single stall bathroom off the kitchen.” 

“No,” Eddie answers too quickly. He pauses. “Well.” He shakes his head, ignoring Richie’s growing smile. “No, no, but maybe– after? When this is over, if you want to… you can’t really come back to my hotel because I’m sharing a suite with Stan but…” 

Richie nods, faux-seriously, his eyes dancing. “Right, of course. So, we can go to my place?” 

“Yeah, if that’s… okay?” 

“That’s okay,” Richie confirms. “Should we uh, stand back to back so no one suspects we’re talking to each other? Maybe I can slip you my address under the bathroom stall door.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and throws in a bid on the spa package just to have something to do. Richie looks at another item at the table next to him, penciling in his own bid. 

After a moment of consideration, Eddie leans into Richie to say quietly, “I’ve been thinking. I want you to fuck me. Tonight.”

Richie says eloquently, “Oh, uh– Okay–” as Eddie pats his shoulder and walks away. 

Eddie smiles to himself, feeling extremely self-satisfied. Then he makes eye contact with Stan and wipes the smile from his face. 

At the end of the night, Eddie tells Stan he needs to swing by the office and Richie gives him a ride back to his place. 

“Do you actually need to go to the office?” Richie asks him when they slide into his car. 

“What?” Eddie says. “No, I was just…” 

“Oh, yeah,” Richie says, nodding. “Giving your wife an excuse.” 

Eddie snorts. “Stan _has_ a wife.” 

“Oh, no shit.” Richie sounds genuinely surprised. “How does she feel about you?” 

“She’s extremely jealous,” Eddie tells him, grinning. 

Richie’s place is an AirBnB, much homier than a hotel, an apartment with some very touristy touches. Lobster magnets on the fridge and framed photographs of lighthouses on the walls. For a few minutes, as they walk inside and take off their coats and ties and as Richie grabs them drinks from the fridge, they chat. Richie tells him that he’s from Chicago; he met Bill at Northwestern. He’s an alumnus of Chicago’s Second City, a factoid that he reveals with a self-satisfied grin. Eddie tells him, perfunctorily, that he grew up on Long Island and has split his time between New York and DC for the duration of his political career to-date. 

When they make their way to the living room to sit on the sofa, they’ve barely settled in before Eddie puts his beer on the coffee table, turns and kisses him. 

“Oh, right, you wanna make this quick?” Richie mumbles through kisses. His stubble scrapes against Eddie’s face. “Need me to drive you home afterward?” 

“Yeah, shut up.”

Eddie straddles him and they fumble to get undressed. Eddie makes quick work of the buttons of Richie’s shirt and hikes up his cotton undershirt to run his hands over his chest. He’s broad and pleasantly padded around his ribs and stomach, his chest covered in hair. 

Eddie thinks that he wants to _devour_ him, and then feels embarrassed for even thinking that. What the fuck. 

Eddie steps away then to slip out of his pants but before he gets to removing his shirt—

“What the fuck is this?” Richie demands, barking an incredulous laugh. He’s staring at Eddie’s shirt-stays, a thin black elastic band around each of his thighs, with a clip secured to the hem of his shirt. “Like, lingerie for guys with crew cuts who went to an ivy league?” 

“It keeps the shirt tucked in–” 

“That is such bullshit,” Richie says. “Who has ever had a problem keeping their shirt tucked in? Buy longer shirts. You’re tiny, that shouldn’t be a hard ask.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes and unclips one of the straps, but before he can start pulling off the elastic band, Richie catches his wrist and pulls him back into his lap. 

“Don’t you dare,” he murmurs. His mouth is on Eddie’s collarbone through his shirt and his hands on his thighs. He slips his fingers under the elastic band, pulls it up and lets it snap back down. Eddie jolts at the slight sting, and immediately wants Richie to do it again; heat coils around the base of his spine. “This infuriates me,” Richie says, muffled into the crook of his neck. Eddie shivers. “It’s so fucking slutty. Do you wear these to boring political functions so you can feel sexy? Jesus. I’m glad I didn’t know you were wearing these tonight, I couldn’t have held out.”

“It’s like you’re–” His voice comes out too breathily so Eddie clears his throat and starts again. “Are you discovering a new fetish?” 

“Oh, hundred percent,” Richie says against his ear, kneading his ass and rocking Eddie against him. Richie is obviously hard, still trapped in his underwear and pants. “Bed?”

“Maybe we can stay here,” Eddie suggests. “I kinda… uh. I want to ride you.” 

Richie actually laughs at that, one explosive little snort. “Oh, I should’ve known. Yeah, okay.” 

“What do you mean you should’ve known?” 

“You’re not gonna give up control that easy,” Richie says. “But, yeah, okay, rock my world, dude. Show me what you got.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but Richie misses it, pulling him in for another kiss.

They both get the rest of the way undressed; Richie tries to convince Eddie to put the shirt-stays back on after he takes off his underwear, but Eddie insists that that’s ridiculous. (It also makes his cheeks burn that Richie even asked. What the _fuck_.) “I’ll get you next time,” Richie cedes, giving the elastic bands one last parting _snap_ against Eddie’s thigh. 

Eddie makes quick work of prepping himself—he’s pretty experienced at that part—while Richie watches him, eyes dark, one hand fisted around his cock, already wearing a condom. 

Then Eddie straddles him again, all business, gripping his shoulder with one hand. He slides down in one slick push. The stretch burns a little, but even that feels alarmingly good, sending a wave of heat to the tips of his toes as his body adjusts. 

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” Richie pants into his chest. Eddie flushes, clenching a little and Richie swears. At first, Eddie rocks back and forth, then starts to bounce, shallowly, feeling the way his body resists pulling out. Gradually, Eddie relaxes and loosens around him, allowing for a smoother slide. 

“Hey,” Eddie says suddenly, as an idea occurs to him. “What if…” He pulls off, holding the base of his dick, where it’s a mess of lube, and spins around so his back is to Richie. 

“Oh, Jesus,” Richie mutters, and swears again when Eddie sinks back down. Eddie’s knees are kind of aching, bent on the couch, but Richie seems to like the change in position. “Shit, fuck,” he grunts as Eddie starts bouncing again. 

This works well for moving and Eddie has better access to his own dick, hissing as he fists a hand around it. He’s leaking like crazy, heavy and full. Eddie realizes then that he can see their reflections in the dark surface of the flatscreen TV in front of them. Not quite well enough for details, but he can see the movement, the up-and-down, and there’s something very basically arousing about that.

Richie scrapes his teeth over the knots of Eddie’s spine and guides his motion with big hands on his hips, tugging Eddie down forcefully at the same time that he jerks his hips up. His thighs are tense under Eddie, knees shaking and toes pressed into the carpet, leveraging every thrust up. 

When Eddie’s close, he bears down and finds the spot that works for him, rocking on Richie’s dick as it nudges against his prostate. He knows it’s not enough movement for Richie—he can tell from the breathless, frustrated grunts he’s making behind him, his hands scrabbling on his hips—but it’s _really_ working for Eddie, the consistent pressure, the stretch and fullness, as he frantically jerks himself off. 

When Eddie comes, he barely has a second to catch his breath before Richie spins them around, manhandling Eddie back onto the couch. Eddie finds himself kneeling, hands on the backrest, when Richie, standing behind him, lines up and slams back in. Eddie lets out a huff, the sound forced out of him, and he falls forward a little until his elbows land on the backrest. His knees are shaking, Richie’s hands bruising on his hips; every thrust pushes Eddie’s cheek into the cushions. He realizes that Richie was really holding back before. 

And okay, this… This is sort of overwhelming. Eddie’s distinctly aware of the fact that he’s being used at this point, that Richie’s just fucking him to get himself off, but… No one’s really treated his body this way before, no one’s ever been a little rough with him, or a little sloppy and desperate. He’s never felt this _wanted_ before, and there’s something undeniably primal about getting fucked that worms its way into the base of his brain and takes root there. Something masculine and fucking _magnetic_ about Richie’s urgency. And Eddie’s making noises, involuntary moans, and that’s something he never does. His control never slips like this, and it’s embarrassing and thrilling. 

Richie keeps fucking into him, hard and fast, until his hands scrabble over his back and he goes still, breathing, “Holy fuck, oh shit.”

After, they lay slumped on the couch together, Eddie with his neck bent at an uncomfortable angle on the arm rest and Richie half on top of him, his head resting on Eddie’s chest. Richie folds his hands over his own bare stomach, one elbow resting on Eddie’s torso, way too low and close to his groin. It’s not particularly intimate, they’re not _cuddling_ , but they’re close and stuck together, skin clammy with drying sweat, Richie heavy on top of him. And he’s _heavy_ ; he’s dense somehow, heavier than he should be, even for his not-insignificant size. Eddie muses about muscle mass for a few seconds, cranes his neck to peer down at Richie’s arms, thick and muscled, but for now resting, the relaxed meat of his bicep pillowed out. 

“Well,” Eddie says after only a couple minutes. It’s a very leading ‘well,’ but if that wasn’t clear enough he elaborates: “I should probably head back.”

“You could stay over if you want,” Richie says. “You know. That’s fine with me.”

“I mean, Stan,” Eddie says quietly. “I can’t be out all night. He’s gonna get suspicious. And– you know– this is supposed to be casual.” 

Richie snorts and pulls away from him, sitting up. Eddie sits up too, aware that they’ve made a mess of the sofa, but Richie doesn’t seem to care. 

“Okay, it _is_ casual,” Richie says. “You’re the one freaking out about it like two seconds after you come– _that’s_ weird.”

Eddie shoots him a look. “Don’t be a moron.”

Richie seems unaffected by the eye daggers. “I’ll take you back to your hotel, but, like. Give a guy a minute to bask in the afterglow before you start nagging.”

“Oh, I’m _nagging_.”

“Yeah, just be normal.” Richie shrugs. The whole expanse of his stupidly broad chest lifts and falls. “Whatever.”

“I’m being normal.”

Richie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, dude, you’re being super normal.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Eddie collects his clothes from the floor and goes to clean himself up.

+

In the morning, Eddie is tired and fuzzy. He’s starting to question the wisdom of this arrangement. Supposedly, fucking Richie is supposed to help with stress, a low-pressure, purely physical affair to fill in the gaps around work. But all it’s really accomplished so far is causing Eddie to lose sleep and spend more time per day distracted by really viscerally horny thoughts. Like, alarmingly horny thoughts. And as a side effect, it’s caused Richie to ramp up his insubordination to near-mutiny levels.

Eddie showered when he got back to the hotel last night, but he showers again, barely five hours later, rubbing his skin raw. He dries and styles his hair, slicking it back with sharp-scented gel. 

When he emerges into the shared kitchenette of their suite, Stan is already talking a mile-a-minute at him, things that need to be done, follow-up calls from the event last night. Eddie nods along, barely processing it, while he wrestles with the coffee maker. Then, almost as an afterthought, Stan tacks on, “Oh, and one more thing. Stop fucking Richie.” 

Eddie snaps his head up. 

Stan raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you thought you were being subtle?”

“Stan–”

“I know you’re not taking this job seriously, but this is actually stupid and could fuck with your reputation if it gets out,” Stan tells him. “And that, in turn, fucks with my reputation.”

Eddie can’t help but laugh a little at that. He stares at the slow drip of the coffee maker, the rising steam. “Right, well. I respect your priorities.”

+

They don’t go to Richie’s place for a while after that, opting for quicker rendezvous in the office or, twice, in Richie’s car, or once, in the bathroom of the campaign tour bus. That one was not a high point of Eddie’s life.

None of this helps much with the stress, but it does provide at least a temporary reprieve from it. As the primaries approach, a few prominent staffers jump ship to work for Marsh. Eddie wouldn’t be bothered by their dwindling team except for the fact that they’re still actively campaigning. It’s a hopeless cause, but Bill doesn’t want to drop out quite yet. This must be good for book sales. The overworking itself isn’t even that bad, except for the fact that it’s all in service of a doomed campaign that’s certainly going to make Eddie quite the laughing stock the next time he shows his face in DC. 

He expresses that worry to Richie one day on a lunch break. Stan had a meeting, so the two of them took the opportunity to sneak back to the Residence Inn, only a couple blocks from HQ. Specifically, Eddie expresses his concerns about the campaign while they’re in bed and while he’s fucking Richie from behind. 

Richie groans, frustrated, pressing back against him. The muscles of his back flex; his head drops between his arms, the angles of his shoulderblades sharpening. “Don’t get me wrong,” Richie says, muffled into the sheets. “You complaining about the campaign instead of fucking me is kinda hot in, like, a torture way, but we have to get back to work soon. Shit or get off the pot, dude.” 

Eddie grimaces. “Ugh, can you think of a grosser thing to say when I’m inside you?”

Richie snorts. “Probably, yeah.”

Eddie doesn’t give him a chance to try. He hauls Richie back by the hips to line him up better—Richie hums appreciatively—and puts his professional woes aside for a few minutes. 

After, they each rinse off and eat a quick lunch of sandwiches in the kitchenette. 

“Does it really matter if we lose?” Richie asks him, returning to their pre-nooner conversation. “I mean, Bill is not cut out for this. Clearly.”

“No, but it reflects badly on me,” Eddie says sullenly.

Richie seems confused. “Really? Why? He would not have made it this far without you.”

“I mean, the fact that I even took this job at all discredits me. I probably won’t be able to get a high profile job again. Jesus. Why did I do this? Because I didn’t want the stress? Like some kind of new age hippie?”

Richie laughs, briefly dropping his face into his hands and snorting. “Oh my god. This is the cutest nervous breakdown I’ve ever seen. You? A hippie? Eds–”

“Not my name.”

“Edjamin, would you say you’re a Type A personality? Do you define your worth by your productivity?”

“Listen, Richard…ino,” Eddie finishes weakly and grimaces when Richie’s face lights up in unrestrained joy. “I _know_ that I’m Type A, I _know_ that I define my worth by my work, I know that that’s fucked up and unhealthy, or whatever. I’ve been to therapy, it ruined my marriage–”

“I thought being gay would’ve been a factor in–”

“Well, yes, that was– Actually, I might have used the overworking to distract myself from the gay thing, but then the overworking killed the marriage, so I botched that one, but– I’m saying, I _know_. I don’t need you to tell me this. At this point, what am I gonna do? Quit my job, stop wearing shoes and start selling handcrafted jewelry on Etsy? At my age?”

Richie looks overjoyed. “Do you… want to sell handcrafted jewelry on Etsy?”

“Fuck no!”

“Okay, I ask because you were ready to go with that example, it sounded specific, like you’ve thought about it before–”

“I’m just– Okay, this is how I fucking cope with the utter meaninglessness of–” Eddie makes a wild gesture that broadly encompasses everything in the entire world. “And on the whole, it’s not the most unhealthy way. I’m not knocking myself out with drugs or alcohol like a lot of people do.”

Richie quirks a brow.

“Okay, I’m doing a little bit of that, too, but to a very normal, political staffer degree. The point is, I’m not hurting anyone, and if I don’t stay busy, I freak out really,” Eddie lowers his voice and says emphatically, “ _really_ bad. And that’s just my life at this point! I know it’s not healthy but I manage it, and I think it’s too late to turn it around anyway.”

Eddie finally runs out of words and Richie stares at him silently for several long seconds. 

“Okay,” Richie says and takes another bite of his sandwich. 

“Okay?” Eddie repeats in exasperation. He’s pouring his fucking soul out and all Richie has to say is _okay?_

“Yeah, I mean, I was just teasing you,” Richie says airily. “But you obviously have your shit together better than I do. And you’re making bank. And you’re… happy…ish? So whatever. Cling to those coping mechanisms. Don’t let them go.”

It’s not until much later in the day, when he’s sitting at the conference room table and coaching Bill through donor phone calls, that Eddie’s mind wanders and he wonders what Richie’s coping mechanisms might be.

+

_The gubernatorial primaries are upon us! There are seven Democratic candidates left in the race. Marsh is the favorite to win, but since Maine has a rank choice voting system, there’s a real opening for smaller candidates to pull through._

_The Denbrough campaign is out in force, registering first time voters and focusing a lot of its efforts on college campuses. Will it be enough?_

+

Eddie can’t decide which outcome scares him most: getting crushed embarrassingly badly or being at the helm while Bill pulls out an unlikely victory.

Okay, it’s the latter. He’s way more scared of the latter. 

They’ve rented out the ballroom in a nearby hotel and that’s where the campaign staff spend the night, watching the results come in and eating and drinking. Eddie hasn’t managed to do much eating or drinking all day except for coffee, and he’s practically vibrating out of his skin as he sits next to Stan and watches the numbers roll in. It’s still early in the night, far too early for this to be meaningful, but he can’t look away. 

No one else seems nearly as stressed as Eddie. That’s usually the case, but tonight it’s reached comically exaggerated heights. Even Bill seems pretty relaxed, all things considered, wandering the ballroom and chatting with staffers, laughing with Audra. 

God, this was just a fun little hobby for them, wasn’t it? For Eddie, this has been his whole life, but they’re going to laugh off this misadventure and go back to making movies. Figures. 

“Numbers?” Eddie says, looking back to Stan’s laptop screen.

“It’s been thirty seconds since I last refreshed,” he says dryly. “I can guarantee there’s nothing new.” 

“Just refresh it,” Eddie snaps, reaching to do so himself. 

Richie saunters up to the table, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. “What are we gonna do with the champagne in the event that we lose? Drink it anyway?” 

The page refreshes. There’s nothing new. 2% of precincts reporting. Meaningless. 

Eddie glances up to Richie. “What? Yeah, I don’t know. Why?”

“Just wondering.” Richie shrugs. “And the victory balloons?” 

Eddie shakes his head, failing to see the point of this line of inquiry. “Throw them out. I don’t know. What does it matter?” 

“That’s a waste,” Richie comments. Eddie realizes then that he’s holding a second glass of whiskey. He sets it on the table for Eddie. Eddie doesn’t touch it. 

“Yeah, well.” Eddie gives a jerky shrug. “This whole thing will have been a fucking waste, so.” 

Richie laughs darkly. “Can always count on you for a nice harsh shot of reality. Thanks for that.” He takes another sip of his drink and keeps standing there. 

“I’m sorry, do you need something?” Eddie asks him. 

Richie’s brow wrinkles. “Uh, no, just saying hi. This is a party… ostensibly.” He makes a little gesture at the rest of the room. 

“Okay, well, we’re trying to watch the results, so…” Eddie turns his attention back to the screen and refreshes again. Still nothing new.

Richie huffs a humorless laugh. “Dude, it’s 8pm. You’re not gonna get anything for like an hour.” 

“Richie,” Eddie snaps, holding up a hand to him. “Sorry, I can’t deal with you right now. Okay?” 

Richie looks back at him, his eyes wide behind his glasses. He recovers from the moment of shock or hurt or whatever it was quickly and his face settles back into something smug and impenetrable. “I’m not asking you to _deal_ with me, Eddie,” he says, taking a step back from the table. “But if you need to ‘blow off some steam’ later I guess you know where to find me.” 

He walks away. 

Eddie keeps his gaze fixed on the screen because Stan saw all of that. And now Stan’s eyes are boring into the side of Eddie’s head. 

“Don’t,” Eddie says before Stan can even start. 

Things are neck and neck until they’re not. It takes a turn and Marsh grows her lead with each precinct reporting. That’s when Eddie picks up the glass of whiskey Richie left on the table and takes a sip. The relief starts to set in, but even that feels jittery and frantic. 

It’s after nine when the call is officially made: Beverly Marsh is the projected winner. 

Bill gets up on the little stage and makes a gracious speech, thanking the staff and congratulating Marsh on the victory. “This was a wild ride,” he says. “Thanks for all your hard work.” 

Then Richie breaks into the celebration champagne and everyone gets properly, going-off-to-war drunk. 

That’s why, the next time Eddie runs into Richie, he’s uninhibited enough to catch him with a firm grip on his shoulder and say, “Hey, sorry for snapping at you, and for being an asshole. Like, in general, I guess, over the past few months. I’m probably never gonna see you again, so… Don’t wanna leave things on a bad note.”

“Thanks for that,” Richie says in a weird tone. Eddie’s hand is still on his shoulder. “We had some good times, I guess.”

Eddie looks him up and down. “Do you wanna fuck?”

Richie shrugs. “Sure. If my dick can still work.”

Eddie glances around the hotel ballroom, full of campaign staff. The lights are dim now, throbbing music playing over the speakers. “Maybe the bathroom?” Eddie suggests, leaning into Richie so he doesn’t have to raise his voice too much. “We won’t be working together anymore so I guess it’s fine if we’re obvious.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Richie says, laughing. “I still have to see some of these people. Like Bill and his wife.” 

They end up walking the couple blocks back to HQ, the office building abandoned at this time of night in favor of the party. There’s no more work left to do, after all. 

They stumble into Eddie’s office where they have sloppy and altogether pretty bad sex, Eddie bending over his desk because he thought that’d be hot, which it was for a few minutes, but then the angle wasn’t working and Richie kept slipping out and sorta smooshing his dick against Eddie’s thigh because he was only, like, half hard from all the drinking. 

At the sound of Richie’s disappointed mumbling and at the feeling of his condomed dick rubbing ineffectually against his ass, Eddie can’t even feel frustrated. He just starts laughing. And then Richie starts laughing, leaning over Eddie’s back, hands on his hips. 

“Okay, so,” Richie says against his ear, his breath making Eddie shiver, comfortable and warm. “I’ll take a rain check on the fucking you over your desk thing.” 

“But we’re moving out tomorrow,” Eddie says before he starts laughing again. He drops his head on the desk, his shoulder shaking helplessly through his laughter. 

“Oh no!” Richie cries, far too loudly. Eddie shushes him, still laughing. 

In the end, Richie fingers Eddie, still bent over his desk, fast and hard the way he wants it, and when he’s done, Eddie sinks to his knees to blow Richie. 

After, they sit on the floor, leaning against Eddie’s desk in the dark office, their shoulders pressed together. 

“Well, that was nice,” Richie says wistfully. “Full circle.” 

Eddie looks at him. “What do you mean?” 

“We started this with me on my knees in my office and we’re ending with you on your knees in your office.” 

Eddie bursts into laughter and leans in to kiss him, smiling into it until it dissolves into lazy pecks. 

He doesn’t realize until later, when he’s back at the hotel and falling asleep, that that was unique for them; they had never kissed after sex.

+

_Well, that’s all she wrote. A pretty handy victory for Beverly Marsh who will now face the incumbent governor Bowers in the general election. Denbrough has already endorsed her._

_Are you sad, Mike? Your favorite guy didn’t pull through?_

_I’m a little sad. No, no, I’m not that sad. It was a fun primary cycle. It’s going to be an uphill battle from here._

+

When Eddie returns to the office the next morning, he discovers that he and Richie didn’t do a great job cleaning up last night. The lube is sitting out on his desk, in plain view, and the discarded condom is on the very top of the rest of the trash. Eddie grimaces and takes care of that first. He doesn’t need any embarrassing questions on his last day.

Then he starts packing. 

He’s been at it for about half an hour when there’s a tap on his office door. He glances up to see Richie, offering a tired smile and a greasy paper fast food bag. 

“Oh, _please_ ,” Eddie says, enthusiastically enough that he stirs a laugh out of Richie. 

Richie comes inside, closing the door behind him. He sets the bag next to the boxes on the desk and flops down in Eddie’s office chair, absently spinning it back and forth while he unpacks the breakfast sandwiches and hashbrown patties. 

“Where off to next?” Richie asks him after a couple minutes of silent, hungover eating. 

Eddie hesitates for a moment before he says, “I called the Marsh campaign to offer my congratulations earlier and now I have an interview.” 

Richie grins. “Oh, you traitor.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “I’m a little invested in making sure Bowers doesn’t get re-elected. Figured if I can help, if they want me… It’s where I want to be.”

“Do you like Maine now?” Richie asks him, teasing. “Do you care about Maine?” 

Eddie scoffs. “Yeah, I care about Maine _so_ much.”

“Yeah, I kinda… uh.” Richie clears his throat. “I’m not, super _attached_ to Maine, because I don’t know it that well, but… it’s been a while since I spent this long in a state, and I like it, you know? So, I might, you know, stick around a little longer… see where things go? In a very… chill, low pressure sorta way?”

Eddie stares at him while he processes what exactly Richie is saying. Then he laughs a little, too exhausted to do much else. “That was cute.”

Richie smiles, pink-cheeked and chuffed, and finishes eating his sandwich. 

Eddie continues packing, placing the books from his shelf into a box, and says, “And we’re not going to be working together anymore, so that simplifies things. We don’t have to sneak around.”

Richie’s head snaps up. 

Eddie looks at him, his stomach sinking. “Uh. Wait. I thought when you said Maine you meant…” Eddie trails off. He’s an idiot, apparently. He’s a total idiot. 

“No, no, I did!” Richie blurts, holding up his hands. “I meant you. That was… Oh, god. I just didn’t expect you to, like… want people to _know_.”

Eddie’s brow furrows. “What do you mean? That was for…” He waves a hand. “Professional reasons.”

“Oh, okay,” Richie says, quite clearly fighting a building smile on his face. “Cool.”

“What about you, Rich?” Eddie asks him as he keeps packing up, sorting through office supplies. “Did you enjoy your first taste of working in politics?”

“Not really,” he answers bluntly, surprising a laugh out of Eddie. “I mean, it was _fine_ , but I… don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

Eddie nods. “So I shouldn’t namedrop you at my interview later?”

“Well…” Richie leans back in the chair, folding his hands behind his head. “If they need a disgraced former comedian running their socials I’d consider it.”


End file.
